


a family is found

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26583991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: “I was there at your mother’s betrothal, same as Geralt, and your first few birthdays. I suppose my performances weren’t very memorable,” he added with a cheeky grin.Cirilla tensed before quickly relaxing again, looking nearly guilty. She unfolded her arms. “I’m sorry.”Jaskier patted her head, standing. “No worries, darling. Just glad to see you two have finally found each other.” He side-eyed Geralt, mostly to check on him. Geralt stared back, jaw tight. No stranger would be able to read the emotion in Geralt’s eyes, in the lines of his face, but Jaskier could. A talent that had come with many decades of knowing him. He reached out and took his hand. “Destiny might not always be so terrible, wouldn’t you agree?”He saw the twitch of Geralt’s mouth, almost a smile.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 347





	a family is found

**Author's Note:**

> written for one of my supporters!! 
> 
> twitter: queermight / korrwrites  
> tumblr: korrmin

When Jaskier saw Geralt again after the mountain he wasn’t sure how he felt. Actually, that wasn’t quite true. He knew exactly how he felt: _betrayed_ , angry, _overjoyed_ , bitter. A complicated mix of emotions that made his heart feel like it would burst out of his chest at any second. Geralt seemed to be just as unsure of how to proceed, standing stiffly in front of him. He had found him in a small town, staying at the local inn with the money he made performing at the tavern downstairs.

“Geralt,” was the first word spoken between them, from Jaskier. He stepped closer to him. Geralt seemed to relax, just a little. “ _Fuck_ you,” were the next words, harsh and sure. Geralt winced, but he didn’t turn and run, so Jaskier applauded him for that. “You fucking _abandoned_ me,” he continued, not caring if the whole inn could hear him. “I only ever wanted the best for you, you bastard, and you _betrayed_ me. Threw me away like I was—”

His mouth snapped shut when the most unexpected thing happened: Geralt surged forward and hugged him. He couldn’t remember if they’d ever hugged; Geralt was warm and solid against him. He bit back a sob, chest tight, as he felt Geralt’s hand settle on his back. “You’re right,” he heard, spoken into his hair. “I made so many mistakes on that mountain and I wish to fix them all.”

Jaskier took a deep breath, gently pushing him back. Geralt went easily. Eyes locked, they were both silent for a moment.

“I loved you, Geralt,” he said. “I still love you.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, finally saying the words he had known were true yet had kept hidden for so long, but Geralt simply nodded, looking even more determined than before. “I know,” he said. “I—” He hesitated. “I feel the same.”

Jaskier should’ve been surprised, maybe, but somehow he’d known. Even when Geralt had broken his heart on that mountain, he had known. He smiled slightly, eyes burning. “If you wish to _fix_ this, you have to do better. No more hurting me because you think you don’t deserve good things. Or because you think you’re _protecting_ me. No more bottling everything up. I deserve _better_ than that. I always have. And frankly so do you.”

Geralt stared at him, jaw clenched. Jaskier stared back. He wasn’t backing down, never again. It was that, or they were over for good. (He didn’t want that. _Please_ , he didn’t want that.)

“I don’t want your apology, Geralt,” he continued, meaning it. “I want to be treated as an equal. Promise me that, and I’ll come back.”

If his chin trembled, afraid of being turned away again, neither of them said anything.

Geralt nodded curtly. Jaskier listened—never looking away from Geralt’s eyes—as he removed his gloves and then grasped one of Jaskier’s hands, holding it. “A partner,” he corrected gently, and there was something like hope in Geralt’s eyes, now, nervous and bright. Jaskier smiled, turning his hand over and letting their fingers slid together.

“Partners,” he conceded.

*

Jaskier wasn’t sure what to expect, now that they were together again. In towns and cities, around others, their relationship stayed quite the same. Geralt was kinder, perhaps, but for the most part their relationship would’ve looked the same to onlookers. That was fine, frankly.

Jaskier didn’t need or even entirely _want_ others to know. This wasn’t for them. It was about them.

But when they stopped for the night, setting up in the woods, or even at an inn, the differences were hard to miss. Now, they slept together every night, no matter the weather. They slept closer, as well, pressed together. Geralt was always so warm, like fire. Jaskier fell asleep with his head on Geralt’s chest most nights.

And in the morning Jaskier was woken by soft kisses pressed to his lips, his eyelids. It was _horribly_ romantic. He wouldn’t have changed it for the world, and yet he felt it important to say:

“You don’t have to force it,” he said eventually, soft in the morning light.

He wanted Geralt to be _honest_. That was what mattered most to him. He didn’t want Geralt to just give him what he thought _he_ wanted; that defeated the whole purpose. But Geralt had simply kissed him again, letting their noses bump together a few times before pulling back to peer at him with warm eyes. He almost looked nervous. It was a sight Jaskier would never tire of seeing. Geralt, _nervous_. Not about monsters, but about this. About them.

“I know,” he said. “I’m not.” Jaskier waited, could see him struggling for the words. “I want this,” he said finally, looking endearingly determined.

Jaskier smiled slightly. “Okay,” he said easily.

*

Geralt continued to struggle in many ways, and Jaskier was patient. He _deserved_ better, but he also _wanted_ Geralt. That meant making sacrifices, understanding when he was asking too much of Geralt. He wanted him to change, yes, but for the better and only if _he_ wanted that.

Bad days were inevitable, he had known that from the start, but he was doing better.

He was putting in _effort_ , at the very least, which was all Jaskier had ever wanted, really.

He spoke more in general, but especially about his feelings. Specifically, his wants and needs. If he was feeling overstimulated, he would simply _tell_ Jaskier. With a nod, Jaskier would put his lute away. They barely fought now that Geralt felt more comfortable expressing himself, even if he was still stiff and unsure about it some days.

While Geralt struggled in some areas of their new relationship, he excelled in others. Every night, even after a bad day, Geralt would spoil Jaskier with his hands and mouth. Frankly, Jaskier felt cheated to have never known Geralt could be such a _generous_ lover.

(Yennefer had been so stupid to give this up, he often thought, even given the circumstances.)

Observant and thoughtful, he quickly learned the right spots to touch, where Jaskier enjoyed his mouth the most. Jaskier returned the favor when he could— _enjoyed_ it immensely—but some nights he could tell Geralt didn’t need that. He loved Jaskier at night as if he _needed_ to do it, as if he needed to prove to him he wanted him, even when his words had failed him.

Most nights ended with Jaskier absolutely exhausted, petting his hand up and down Geralt’s chest.

“You are a _God_ ,” he said one night, and Geralt’s laugh was absolutely lovely, loud and unabashed. Jaskier had never heard him laugh like that around others. He selfishly wanted to keep it that way.

He wanted it to just always be the two of them.

*

Jaskier had almost forgotten that wasn’t meant to be, only remembering it once they had stumbled across the girl in the woods. Jaskier felt a little awkward, frankly, watching as the girl—Cirilla, preferred to be called Ciri as he would later learn—hugged Geralt for a long time. Geralt buried his face in her hair, and Jaskier could only feel happy for him.

When they separated, Cirilla quickly turned to Jaskier as if noticing him for the first time. “Who is this?” she asked. Even after everything, she sounded the part of royalty, voice proper. Her hair was muddied and she had scraps all over her pale face.

Geralt opened his mouth, but Jaskier was faster:

“You don’t remember me?” he asked with a pout, crouching to her level.

Geralt was silent, watching them with a hint of amusement in his eyes. She squinted at Jaskier. She looked thoughtful, far beyond her years. Finally she huffed, folding her arms. “Am I supposed to?” she asked, just the edge of sharp. Jaskier let out a laugh as he stood up.

“I was there at your mother’s betrothal, same as Geralt, and your first few birthdays. I suppose my performances weren’t very memorable,” he added with a cheeky grin.

Cirilla tensed before quickly relaxing again, looking nearly guilty. She unfolded her arms. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier patted her head, standing. “No worries, darling. Just glad to see you two have finally found each other.” He side-eyed Geralt, mostly to check on him. Geralt stared back, jaw tight. No stranger would be able to read the emotion in Geralt’s eyes, in the lines of his face, but Jaskier could. A talent that had come with many decades of knowing him. He reached out and took his hand. “Destiny might not always be so terrible, wouldn’t you agree?”

He saw the twitch of Geralt’s mouth, almost a smile.

*

“Are you two in a relationship?” she asked a few days later. 

They were in the woods, sitting together around a fire, stars overhead. Geralt had disappeared for food a while ago, their rations finally running out. Jaskier had his dagger out. He had never used it, not since Geralt had gifted it to him, but he supposed there was a first for everything.

Jaskier peered over at her with a small smile. “What gave you that idea?” he asked, because he was genuinely curious. Since the girl’s arrival, Geralt had regressed a bit. Jaskier wasn’t angry, no, because he had explained to him that he was just struggling, with the changes and caring for another person so suddenly and so deeply.

All that to say Geralt hadn’t exactly been as affectionate the last few days.

Cirilla pursed her lips. “I can see it in the way you look at each other,” she said finally. There was something almost sad to her words, like she was remembering an unpleasant memory.

He reached for her hand, so small in his own. Jaskier had never cared much for children, but he was starting to understand the appeal. “We are,” he said. “But it is new, to both of us,” he continued with a sheepish smile, squeezing her hand. As much as Jaskier had slept around during his earlier years, this was his first real relationship just as much as Geralt’s. “You avoided a lot of the bad, thankfully.”

Cirilla nodded, turning to stare at the fire. “Growing up, I heard many stories from the other children about witchers.” She paused, peering almost shyly at Jaskier. “None of them were very kind. Some even said they were incapable of love.”

He ignored the ache in his chest, tried not to think about the way, even now, Geralt grew uneasy around children. Like he was waiting for the moment they would realize he was a monster and run the other way.

“Well, Geralt has plenty of flaws,” he assured her, because she deserved to know he was far from perfect, considering she would be accompanying them from now on. She smiled a little. “But he has grown a lot over the years I have known him, and you could not have asked for a better person to protect you.”

Her eyes grew dark, a little sad, but only briefly. “I’m just glad to not be alone,” she admitted in a quiet voice, finally sounding and looking her age. Jaskier felt suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to protect this young girl and none of that had to do with Geralt. With who she was to Geralt.

He scooted over and wrapped an arm around her. She leaned into him, sniffling.

“I know this isn’t the family you wanted, or expected,” he began softly, “but we will take care of you.” He thought of Geralt, what he would _give_ for him, _do_ for him. The sky was the limit. “We’ll all take care of each other,” he corrected. “Just like a proper family.”

Cirilla side-eyed him. “Geralt, I understand,” she said, “but… you don’t have to pretend to care for me.”

Jaskier smiled, eyes crinkling around the corners. “Darling, I don’t extend my kindness to anyone I think is undeserving.” He pulled away to stretch for his lute. “Frankly, you are far more pleasant than I thought you would be and I genuinely enjoy your company. Your grandmother must’ve raised you well.”

Her eyes widened for a second, and Jaskier saw the moment she forced back the tears, clenching her jaw.

Already like Geralt in so many ways.

“Thank you,” she said.

Jaskier winked before starting to play. Cirilla closed her eyes and swayed with the music. He only stopped once Geralt returned with a deer over his shoulder. At the sight of them, he smiled slightly and made to turn. Jaskier shook his head.

“Don’t underestimate her, Geralt,” he said gently. “As much as you want to protect her, I’m sure she has already seen the worst the world has to offer. A deer being skinned is hardly anything.”

He glanced at Cirilla, just to be sure, but she was sitting up as expected, a challenge in her eyes.

“I ate a rat,” she announced proudly, and Geralt nearly dropped the deer with his laughter, shoulders shaking. Jaskier laughed with him, bringing the girl closer again when she frowned at them, cheeks red with embarrassment.

“No, no, that is very— _brave_ ,” he assured her, and barely ducked out of the way of her smack.

Jaskier was surprised by how little he minded sharing Geralt’s unabashed laughter with someone else.

*

The first time Geralt kissed him in front of Cirilla should’ve been a happy day; Jaskier froze, waiting for Geralt’s reaction, and for a moment he just stared back at Jaskier, also frozen, before finally his mask cracked and he squeezed the back of his neck.

“Continue packing,” he said, voice steady. “I’ll tend to Roach.”

Jaskier nodded and watched as he approached Roach, completely normal. Cirilla appeared at his side, looking far too pleased.

“Gross,” she said, and Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Less talking,” he said. “More packing.”

After packing, they mounted their horses—Cirilla on the back of Roach, like always—and continued on. Jaskier felt giddy, like he was on top of the world. He had been stuck on his newest ballad, and now he was certain he could find the motivation to finish it.

And if the ballad took a turn for the romantic, well, who could blame him?

He was wholly in love, and not the fake stuff he had felt as a young man, chased around like a starving man, but _real_ love. He would play the finished piece for Cirilla; she was just as painfully honest a critic as Geralt had been when they had first met, though a little softer around the edges.

Geralt couldn’t be trusted for criticism, nowadays, as he just always watched Jaskier with annoyingly fond eyes when he sang, no matter if his voice was a little too scratchy that day or the melody fell flat in the middle.

“Stop,” Cirilla announced after an hour or so of riding, loud enough to be heard over their horses.

Geralt halted Roach, and Jaskier did the same, watching as the young girl dropped to her feet and scurried off between some trees. Jaskier kept quiet, knowing Geralt would grow too tense if he couldn’t hear her.

Jaskier knew something was off long before Geralt slid off Roach. “What is it?” he asked as he climbed down from Pegasus, eyes wide. “Do you hear something?”

“No,” he replied instantly. “I don’t hear anything.”

Jaskier nodded once. “Okay, well.” He was already reaching for his dagger when Geralt stepped closer, shaking his head.

“Stay,” he said. “Watch the horses.”

He nearly laughed. “I’m not _staying_ here, Geralt. Ciri might be—” He didn’t quite want to list the possibilities, stomach a knot of worry. “I’m going with you.” Without waiting for a reply, he slipped his dagger out and turned toward the woods.

Geralt followed, leaving the horses behind. Frankly, Jaskier trusted Roach not to run off. Pegasus, not so much. However, it would be a small price to pay for Cirilla’s safety. Jaskier tried not to worry too much. She might’ve just wandered off, lured by a small animal or a strange sound. The forest were full of both of those.

Any second now they would stumble across her, and Jaskier would see the tension drain from Geralt’s shoulders and they’d hug her but only after scolding her for running off and—suddenly Geralt stopped, throwing an arm out to stop Jaskier in his tracks.

“Shh,” he hissed, and Jaskier nodded quickly.

His dagger felt heavy in his hand. He gripped the hilt with white knuckles, watched with bated breath as Geralt took the lead and slowly pushed the branches aside to the sight of Cirilla, held by a man with a dagger to her neck. He wasn’t alone; two other men stood off to the side. Cirilla was awake, at least, eyes wide and lips slightly parted as if she wanted to scream and yet didn’t have enough air left in her lungs to produce a single sound.

He saw Geralt take a step forward. “Stop,” he said as the man stared them down. Cirilla’s eyes were on them as well, wide and wet. “One wrong move and she’s dead, Geralt,” he said, keeping his voice low.

Jaskier knew Geralt was aware of that just as much as he was, but he also knew the man he loved could be quite _stupid_ when the people being threatened were the ones he loved. Impulsive and stupid. Geralt slowly went for his sword; Jaskier saw the moment the man noticed, eyes widening a little.

“Don’t do it!” he shouted. One of the other men lifted his weapon; an arrow. Jaskier noticed a dark liquid on the tip of the arrow. Poison, no doubt. “Or I’ll kill her!”

Jaskier stepped in front of Geralt. “What do you want?” he asked, keeping his voice as kind as possible. Rage swirled in his gut.

“Do you know what they’re offering for her?” he said with a delirious laugh, giving Cirilla a hard shake. “If we give her over, we’ll never have to work another day in our _life_.”

Geralt growled, eyes darkening. Jaskier saw the arrow being pulled back, readied. His heart skipped a beat. “No, _wait_ —” he started, but it was too late: the sound of an arrow cutting through the air. Jaskier heard Cirilla’s gasp, the first sound from her, when the arrow hit Geralt in the shoulder, knocking him back.

“Nice shot,” Geralt said as he reached for the arrow and yanked it out. Jaskier winced.

“Geralt, _no_ , it’s—”

But he was already staggering, dropping to his knees as black blood oozed from the wound. Cirilla let out a sob and the ground shook under their feet. He knew of her power, knew she had no control of it. Certainly she could kill these men with little effort, but there was no promise she would stop there.

Jaskier cursed, watching as the two men walked to Geralt. He took a quick step to the side, keeping his eyes on Cirilla. None of them were paying him too much attention. They had obviously deducted that he wasn’t much of a threat.

Normally, he’d agree, but _normally_ he wasn’t the one thing standing between his family being pulled apart or staying together. Cirilla caught his eyes, wide and hopeful, and he shook his head. She seemed to understand, staying silent.

“Look at him—” Jaskier watched as one of the men kicked Geralt in the side, who groaned and nearly fell, barely keeping himself up as the wound continued to ooze too-dark blood. Cruel laughter. “Not so big and strong _now_ , are you?”

His chest was tight with anger, but he pushed it aside for the moment. He had to be strong. For both of them. Finally he was close enough to slowly lift his dagger. The man’s attention was divided between watching Geralt and keeping Cirilla in his arms. He didn’t even notice Jaskier as he swung his hand.

A shout of pain as his dagger buried in skin. Cirilla wiggled out of her captor’s arms and scrambled away, squeezing her eyes shut. His body fell to the ground with a thud and the other men quickly turned, eyes wide.

“ _Go!_ Don’t stop!” he commanded, surprised by how steady his voice was even as his hands shook.

Cirilla took off. One of the men made to go after her; Jaskier made chase. Geralt grabbed the arrow from beside him and Jaskier nodded once, snatching it from him on his way. Once he was close enough, he sunk the arrow in the man’s back. If a poison was strong enough to hinder Geralt, even momentarily, it was sure death for a human.

Jaskier didn’t even wait for him to fall before he was turning around and rushing back to the scene.

The last man stood over Geralt, a sword drawn. Jaskier was out of options. His heart thumped loudly.

“Got any other tricks you’d like to show off, bard?” he asked.

Jaskier’s eyes flickered from him to Geralt and back again. The man was big, bulky. He held his sword like he barely knew how to use it. Geralt had always told Jaskier strength wasn’t everything. Speed and agility were equally as important. That was why Geralt fought like a dancer, elegant and smooth. Jaskier took a deep breath, knowing what he had to do.

If he didn’t make it, well—at least Geralt and Cirilla would. Hopefully. Cirilla would return for Geralt, he knew.

Jaskier moved so fast his vision blurred; he grabbed Geralt’s sword, sliding it out of its sheath, before rushing the man. Their swords clashed. Geralt shouted something, pained and raspy. Jaskier couldn’t hear much through the rushing in his ears, the constant clash of their swords.

His heart pounded with each second. Finally he spotted an opening and went for it, fearless and bold. Blood splattered across his face as his sword sliced through the man’s neck.

Jaskier had never imagined he’d feel so little in the face of death when he was eighteen.

Gasping, he dropped the sword and fell to the ground. He did it. The man laid a few feet away, lifeless. He searched for Geralt, who was staring at him with wide eyes. “Geralt, you’re—you need—”

His bag. He needed his bag. He probably had a vial to counteract the poison. Geralt was always prepared for these kinds of things. Jaskier smiled slightly, eyelashes fluttering. Geralt just kept staring at him, eyes so wide. Jaskier wondered what he was looking at.

As if on cue, Cirilla burst through the trees, Geralt’s bag hanging off her shoulder and a stick gripped her hands. Jaskier blinked at her. Cirilla glanced at Geralt first, seeming pleased that he was still up, before spinning toward him.

Her scream was piercing and painful. Jaskier groaned, falling back. “Ciri, what the—?”

“Jaskier, Jaskier,” she repeated, and Geralt waved for her.

“Don’t, calm down, give me my bag, come on, come here.”

Jaskier still didn’t quite understand why Geralt sounded so concerned; surely he had something to take care of the poison, and he was still conscious, so that was a good sign. And Cirilla—she was crouched over him now, eyes wide and wet but _safe_.

“Oh, Jaskier,” she breathed, and he smiled up at her.

“Don’t cry,” he said, feeling suddenly so weak. He supposed he had exerted himself more than usual. “We’re okay.”

Geralt appeared next to her. Jaskier took a shaky breath.

“You’re—okay,” he said, a question. Geralt nodded curtly. Jaskier smiled again. “Mmm. I knew you would be.”

“But you’re not,” Geralt said, and Jaskier blinked slowly, not understanding. Geralt reached down and started to rip away his layers; Jaskier frowned. This was his favorite doublet, and Geralt _knew_ that, but—well, he supposed the blood had ruined it anyway. “Keep him alert,” he barked to Cirilla, who startled before shifting, gently pulling Jaskier’s head onto her thighs.

With his head alleviated, he finally saw what had Geralt all worked up: a gash in his side, a few inches long and bleeding heavily. Jaskier didn’t think it was too deep, given the sight of it, but suddenly he all the pain hit him at once. He couldn’t even remember getting hit, and yet there was no denying the evidence.

Whimpering, he squeezed his eyes shut. Geralt’s voice was harsh again: “ _Talk_ to him.”

He felt Cirilla’s hands in his hair. “Jaskier, um. You’re—” A new pain in his side, the pressure of Geralt’s hands if he had to guess. “You’re going to be okay. Geralt is taking care of you, just like you took care of us. Because that’s what you did,” she continued, her voice a little shaky. “You protected us, Jaskier.”

Jaskier swallowed thickly. “Mmm, that’s what—families do, right?”

A weak laugh. “Yes, yes, it is.”

“Jaskier.” Not Cirilla, but his favorite voice in the world. He opened his eyes, forced them open, to find Geralt leaning over him. “Jaskier, this is going to hurt, but—I have to, okay?” He didn’t even need to know what he was talking about. He trusted him. He gave a small nod, and Geralt pressed their foreheads together. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Jaskier wished desperately to tell him he didn’t have to be. “Hold on.”

Something was poured over his wound and the pain was blinding. He thrashed, but Geralt kept him from moving too much with gentle pressure on his chest.

When the pain started to subside, _finally_ , he found himself drifting off. He distantly heard Geralt’s voice, worried and frantic.

He could only hope he wouldn’t be too mad.

*

Cirilla found their relationship to be odd, sometimes. They didn’t express their love for each other in a way she was used to. Not like her grandmother and Eist, or any of the other couples she had seen as a child. But now, as she sat near the fire, she had no doubt of their love.

Geralt had carried Jaskier back to their camp, and hadn’t left his side for hours. He had told her to sleep, earlier, but she had simply shook her head and he hadn’t pushed.

She had thought to offer a doctor, or healer, but stopped herself. She trusted Geralt just as she knew Jaskier did. He would never let Jaskier willingly die.

Every half hour or so, Geralt would pull back the bandages to check on Jaskier’s wound; Cirilla was surprised to see that it was healing faster than normal. At her look of awe and confusion, Geralt grunted, gently wrapping his stomach back up.

“I have stuff mixed for humans,” he said without looking, eyes locked on Jaskier’s sleeping face. “Didn’t use to,” he confessed quietly. “Before I met him, I didn’t have a reason to.”

Cirilla nodded, biting her bottom lip. “He’ll be okay?” she asked hopefully.

His jaw clenched. Cirilla was pretty sure she could hear his teeth grinding together from across the fire. She shivered. “There is never any guarantee,” he said gruffly, “even with the help of magic.”

She looked down, frowning. “He is quite brave for a bard,” she said, and Geralt’s laugh was short and humorless.

“Stupid, you mean,” he replied but his voice was full of fondness.

Finally she grew too tired to keep her eyes open. Geralt eventually noticed, glancing up toward her.

“Rest,” he said. “I will watch him.”

Cirilla thought it was a silly thing for him to say. _Obviously_. “You love him very much,” she said without even meaning to, suddenly overwhelmed with the love between these two men. How she had ever doubted it, she wasn’t sure.

Geralt tensed briefly before seeming to force himself to relax. “I wasn’t always ready to accept that,” he said, and she smiled softly. Before she could say more, he looked back up. “Sleep now,” he said sternly. “You need your rest.”

*

Geralt sat with Jaskier all night. When he wasn’t checking his wound, or reapplying the salve, he was simply holding his hand, fingers pressed lightly against his wrist. There, he could feel his pulse under his fingertips.

Cirilla peacefully slept the whole night. She still didn’t have her own bedroll, but that didn’t seem to bother her.

In the early morning, Jaskier finally woke. Geralt held his breath, watching quietly as he groaned and turned his head toward him. His eyes were blood-shot and he was pale, but he was _alive_ and Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever looked more beautiful.

“Ever do that again, and I’ll kill you myself,” were the first words out of his mouth. His eyes burned. He knew death was inevitable for humans—for _Jaskier_ —but never like that. He never wanted to watch as he bled out in his arms. He’d rather die with him. Jaskier smiled softly.

“No, you won’t,” he said hoarsely. “You love me too much.” Geralt hated that he was right.

Leaning down, he pressed their foreheads together and took a deep breath. Jaskier had still a slight fever. “We still need to get you to a proper doctor,” he said. “Even magic is only capable of so much.” But without it, Jaskier would’ve certainly died. Geralt owed Jaskier’s life to Yennefer. They’d already been planning on visiting her and now he knew he would need to thank her as soon as they found her.

Jaskier weakly ran a hand down his arm. “Is she—?”

Geralt understood immediately. “She worried for you, but eventually fell asleep.”

“Good,” he replied, letting his eyes fall shut again. Geralt continued to hold his hand. He didn’t really want to let go, ever. He knew that was impossible, but a man could dream.

Finally Geralt had to part ways with Jaskier for the first time since his near-death to search for their horses. He eventually found them and returned. Jaskier was sitting up by then, talking with Cirilla. He looked tired still, but more like a man prepared for the long journey ahead of them.


End file.
